


So Glad We (Almost) Made It

by Ayende



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 05, Stiles Stilinski-centric, but with a hint of Stydia, really a gen fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayende/pseuds/Ayende
Summary: The Beast has been stopped, the Dread Doctors are gone, and everything has returned to normal.Or so Stiles thought, until he started noticing some strange behaviour amongst his classmates.  Something odd is going on, and he's determined to figure it out.(Post season 5)





	So Glad We (Almost) Made It

It had been three weeks since Stiles’ spidey-sense started tingling.

The first time, it happened in calculus.  Scott stumbled into class fifteen minutes late, a harried look on his face and apologies on his lips, and the girl sitting in the seat next to Stiles packed up her books and moved to the back of the classroom.

Then, a week later, Stiles stumbled and fell by his locker in the middle of the morning rush, crashing hard onto his knees as his books spilled across the corridor.  Two students helped him up, one on each arm, while four more gathered his belongings and handed them back without a word.

And, finally, a kid refused to let Stiles pay for his meal when he stopped by a drive-through.  Twenty minutes of arguing against a backdrop of angry car horns later and Stiles finally gave in, glaring suspiciously at the grudgingly-accepted food before throwing it in the first trash bin he could find.

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles declared the next day, slamming his books onto the wooden table and narrowing his eyes at a group of passing students.  “People are doing me favours.”

Lydia raised an unimpressed eyebrow; Liam rolled his eyes.

“I’m being serious!” Stiles whined.   “I don’t like it.”

Scott rested a placating hand on his elbow, pulling Stiles down onto the seat beside him and watching him with amusement.  “I think it’s just graduation fever,” he suggested.  “People have been friendly to me too.  It’s like they’ve realised we’ll all be leaving soon so they’re trying to make the most of it.”

Stiles shot him a withering look.  “You think people are just being _nice?_   Don’t be ridiculous, Scott.”

Scott, the traitor, just smirked and shook his head, turning his attention back to his biology textbook.

Well, he was clearly a lost cause.

Giving up on him, Stiles weighed his chances with the others.  Liam had already checked out of the conversation and was staring wistfully at Hayden’s retreating back, so he was out of commission for at least the next half hour.  Lydia was fixing her eyeshadow with intense concentration that was almost certainly for his benefit – a clear ‘leave me out of this’ if he ever saw one.

That only left one option.

Malia was glaring at her half-finished math homework, not paying any attention whatsoever to his crisis. 

“Malia?” Stiles implored, leaning over to her and widening his eyes in what he hoped was a beseeching fashion.  “You’ll help me look into this, right?

The werecoyote froze, turned just enough to meet his gaze, and let out a single warning growl.

Well, okay, then.

Stiles threw his hands in the air, exasperated, and pushed himself back to his feet.

“Fine,” he snapped.  “I’ll do this myself, _again._ But I expect to hear some grovelling from each of you when it turns out I’m right.”

* * *

_Step One: Find Out Who Is Involved_

Stiles had only a handful of names on his hastily-scribbled list.  Drive-through kid, girl-with-glasses from calc, Blake from history, and the group from the hallway who were dutifully recorded as ‘Jackson look-a-like’, ‘angry girl’, ‘boy with braces’, ‘other three’.

He spent the afternoon watching his classmates like a hawk, but the strangest thing anyone did was send him concerned glances and occasionally break into a jog to get out of his field of vision.

Apparently, observation wasn’t going to cut it.

He saw his opportunity when school let out.  The carpark was crawling with students making their escape, the noise of slamming doors and humming engines filling the air.  Stiles was walking down the front steps of the school when an idea struck him and he tilted his head, thoughtful.  He muttered a semblance of a goodbye to Scott, then pushed his way through the throng of milling teenagers.

He made it to his Jeep in record time, throwing his bag in the passenger seat and starting the engine as soon as his door clicked into place.  A few cars had already left, but the majority of students were still piling into their rides.

Perfect.

There was only one exit to the school carpark, an infamous one-lane bottleneck that had led to many arguments between aggravated students and the put-upon school board.

Stiles manoeuvred his Jeep to the exit, doing his best to keep the very middle of the lane.  Then, he rolled gently to a stop and turned off the engine.

It was thirty seconds before the shouting started. 

“What’s going on?”

“I think that old junker has broken down.  _Again._ ”

“For fuck’s sake, I need to get to work.”

“Somebody move that piece of crap out of the way.”

Stiles smirked, relaxed deeper into his seat, and waited.

The shouting grew louder, and then there was a sharp rap on his window.  Outside stood one of the boys from the basketball team, glaring daggers beneath drawn eyebrows.

“What’s going on, Stilinski?” the larger boy asked, an edge to his voice.

Stiles smiled apologetically, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.  “Sorry, man,” he responded in a deliberately light voice that did not sound remotely remorseful. “She’s an old car, this happens sometimes.  She’ll probably start up again in about twenty minutes.”

The boy’s expression darkened, his eyebrows somehow pulling even closer together.  Stiles was a little impressed.

“Tell you what,” Stiles continued, intrigued, “if you’re bored, you could teach me how to make that face. Cause, _dude_ , that is freaking intimidating.  Do you practice in the mirror? Or is it all about the eyebrow game?”

Behind Eyebrows, Stiles could see Scott groan from fifty yards away.  Even from this distance, the werewolf looked torn between wanting to defend Stiles and wanting to hide his face in embarrassment. 

Stiles sent him a cheerful wave and a thumbs up.

Screaming metal drew Stiles’ attention back to Eyebrows, who had apparently given up on the conversation in favour of wrestling with his doorhandle. 

“Woah, dude, you can’t just _break into people’s cars._   What exactly is your plan here?”

“To get this piece of junk moving,” the boy growled.   “Or, failing that, to move it out of the way.   You’re being an obnoxious shit, you know that?”

Stiles hmmed in response, then jumped a little as the handle broke with a loud crack, his abused door swinging open. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he grumbled, genuinely annoyed now.  Eyebrows stepped back and glared at him, gesturing for him to step out of the car, and Stiles complied with a huff.  “Are you going to pay for that?  I feel like you should pay for that.”

“It was rusty,” Eyebrows said, dismissively.  He clambered into the Jeep, and Stiles took a moment to survey the crowd that had gathered nearby. A few students had drifted away to the shade, seemingly unbothered by the whole situation.  Most people were eyeing Stiles with varying levels of disdain – unfortunately, not a new experience for him.

To the right of the crowd, though, he noticed something unusual.  Three students – sophomores, he thought – were eyeing him with a mixture of fear and caution.  They were huddled together as if for protection, their hands twitching on their backpacks, and they seemed ready to flee at any moment.

Stiles frowned and took a step in their direction but pulled up short as his engine revved to life behind him.

“Ah, fuck,” he whispered. 

Turning, Stiles plastered a grateful smile on his face, watching warily as the larger boy jumped down from the Jeep.

Eyebrows seemed unmoved by his expression.  “It’s working,” he said, bluntly.

“So it is.  You must have the magic touch.  So, thanks and all, but I’ve got to go this way real quick, and – ow, _shit!_ ”

Stiles’ voice broke off as the older boy grabbed him by the collar, stepping into his space and glaring holes in his skull. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Stilinski –”

“Let him go!”

The voice was unfamiliar, coming from somewhere behind him, and was punctuated by a rush of footsteps closing in from behind. 

It was the sophomores, who must have run flat-out to reach him in record time, and Stiles realised with surprise that they were glaring at Eyebrows, their nervousness apparently forgotten in the wake of newfound anger.  One of them – the smallest boy – slipped between Stiles and Eyebrows, crossing his arms and staring the older boy down, while another forcibly peeled Eyebrows’ hands from Stiles’ shirt.

The third person – a girl – was watching Stiles carefully, concerned eyes scanning him from head to toe.  “Are you okay?” she asked.

Stiles stared. “Fine.  Why are you –?”

“Is there a reason you blocked the carpark?” she cut across him, unperturbed.  Glancing around the crowd, she took a step closer and lowered her voice to barely above a whisper.  “Do you need us to keep everyone here?” 

What? 

Stiles frowned, then shook his head.  “Everything’s fine,” he said, after a beat.  “Just had some car trouble.”

The girl studied him, clearly unconvinced, but after a moment decided to let it slide.

“Okay,” she said instead, then turned to face Eyebrows.  “Guess it’s all sorted now.  How about you let him move the Jeep so everyone can get home?

Stiles smothered a grin, impressed despite himself, and slipped past Eyebrows with a mocking two-fingered salute to climb back into the Jeep.  The girl was still watching him intently, and he made sure to mouth _thanks_ before slamming the door and hitting the accelerator.

The Jeep rolled onto the street and he hooked a right, heading for the centre of town.

Three more names to add to his list.  And the afternoon was just beginning. 

* * *

 “Stiles, you here?”

Stiles grinned at the voice.  “In the kitchen, Daddy-o!” he yelled.  Bouncing on his heels, he finished grating the last of the carrot and sprinkled it on top of his freshly-made salad with a flourish. 

His dad entered the room, expression falling instantly at the sight of the plates.  “Salad, kid?  Really?”

“It’s good for you,” Stiles reprimanded.  He plonked a plate in his father’s hand before passing over a fork, then gathered his own dinner and led the way into the dining room.  “We’re getting that blood pressure down if it’s the last thing I do.”

“You know what would help with that?”

Stiles stiffened, glancing up at his father with a guarded expression.  “Why does this feel like a trick question?”

“Guilty conscience?”

Stiles sighed, setting aside his fork and shifting to face his dad head-on.  “Alright, I’ll play,” he sighed.  “What did I do this time?”

“Rumour has it there was a little incident at the grocery store,” his dad responded, eyeing him suspiciously.  “Something about a clumsy kid stumbling into shelves and knocking things to the floor.  And Mrs Henderson told me that you held up the queue at the coffee shop for a good fifteen minutes while you chatted up the barista.”

Stiles squawked in protest, waving a hand dramatically.  “That is a bald-faced lie!” he argued.  “I was having a generally pleasant conversation with her, not ‘chatting her up’.  You really think I have that much game?  Wait, don’t answer that.”

Surprisingly, the Sheriff didn’t look at all amused.  Instead, he frowned at Stiles and leaned forward, studying him with narrowed eyes.  “Come on, kid, I thought he were past this.  Are you really going to lie to my face?”

“Technically, that wasn’t a lie,” Stiles pointed out, then cut himself off as a hurt expression flickered across his dad’s face. 

Great.  Well done, Stiles. 

Taking a deep breath, Stiles blew the air out through his cheeks, then started over.  “Sorry,” he said, voice uncharacteristically serious.  “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

The Sheriff studied him, then nodded slowly.  “It’s alright,” he accepted.  “But what’s going on?”

“People are being weird,” Stiles answered.  He picked up his fork again and started sorting through the food on his plate.  He never knew why he bothered mixing it all up when he always ended up separating it out.  Force of habit, he supposed.  Just like the lying and the paranoia and the running away from bloodthirsty monsters…

His dad was watching him with concern, and he pulled himself back to the present.   “They’re being overly nice to us and I don’t know why.  I know it sounds crazy,” he added hastily, a bit defensive, “but this is ridiculous levels of nice.  Strangers-willing-to-get-in-a-fight-to-defend-me nice.  There’s something off about it.”

His dad chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting upward as he took in the words.  “Okay,” he said slowly, and Stiles felt a rush of gratefulness.  At least someone was willing to take him seriously.  “So, you were, what?  Deliberately being irritating to see how people reacted?”

Stiles nodded, and the Sheriff sighed.  “Stiles, you’ve got to take more care of yourself.  Pissing people off might give you answers, but you could also end up with a reputation that’s hard to shake.  People always remember the bad stuff, you know?”

“I know,” Stiles admitted.  “And I didn’t mean for this to come back on you.”  A thought reached him, and his eyes widened as he stared at his dad, suddenly terrified.  “Wait, you’re not in trouble, right?  They’re not using me to threaten your job again?”

The Sheriff shook his head, reaching across the table to squeeze Stiles’ hand in reassurance.  “No, I’m fine,” he said.  “Michaels is convinced that you snuck into my liquor cabinet, but he thought it was hilarious.”

“Thank god,” Stiles swore, sinking heavily into his seat.

For a moment, there was silence, then the Sheriff spoke.  “So, what did you find out?”

Stiles chewed his own cheek, a habit he must have inherited somewhere down the line.  “I have a list,” he said, slowly.  “But everyone I’ve identified is from school.  And I know I haven’t exactly canvassed the whole town, but I spent a good couple of hours acting as bait this afternoon, and nothing.  Zip.  Nada. I think I would have gotten _something_ if this was widespread.”

“That’s good,” the Sheriff said, thoughtfully.  “I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s affecting kids, but if this really is a sign of something bad then at least it’s contained.  For now.”

Stiles put _that_ lovely thought to the side.  “’ _If_ this is something bad?” he echoed instead.  “You think it could be something else?”

The Sheriff made an odd gesture, a cross between a shrug and a nod.  “I honestly don’t know,” he mused.  “I’d like to think that people being ‘too nice’ is a good thing.  But I think you’re right to look into it all the same.  Complacency gets people killed.”

It was only there for a second, but Stiles still noticed the shadow that flickered behind his eyes.  He didn’t comment on it, instead nodding in agreement.

They finished their dinner in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

* * *

  _Step Two: Research_

Stiles laced his fingers together and stretched his arms in front of him, then let his hands hover over his keyboard.

 _People being nice + curse_ , he typed, then hit search.

The page refreshed, and he glanced at the top of the screen and winced.  Forty-six million results.  

Sighing, he deleted the search and tried again.

 _Sudden personality change + supernatural_.

Eight million results.

“Well, I don’t know what I expected.”

Reaching for his water bottle, Stiles took a long draught before settling back into his seat, then started scrolling through the results.

Before long, he was lost in the search, minutes blurring into hours that passed in fits and spurts, but finally the first streaks of grey lightened the horizon and he threw himself back in his chair with a groan.

An entire night of searching, and he had found nothing remotely useful.  All his favourite forums – northing.  Celtic, Greek, Japanese folklore – nada.

His head throbbed, and Stiles grimaced as he dragged a hand over his face.  He hated the idea of giving up, but exhaustion was pulling at his bones with a deep-seated ache and the letters on his screen were starting to jump around the page.  He wasn’t going to find out anything more tonight.

Besides, if he went to bed now, he could probably squeeze in an hour of sleep before school. 

“Alright,” he whispered to no one in particular.  He stood with a wince, then stumbled over to his bed and threw himself face-first onto the mattress.  “Sleep it is.”

* * *

 Stiles pulled into the near-empty carpark, blinking in surprise when he spotted Scott leaning against the clinic door, arms folded across his chest.  He must have been expecting him. 

Scott’s posture was all too reminiscent of Melissa’s when she was preparing to lecture a certain pair of troublemaking boys, and Stiles smirked as he rolled to a stop and jerked the handbrake into position.   

“Fancy meeting you here,” Stiles greeted, jumping out of the Jeep and slamming the door shut behind him.  “Stalking’s illegal, you know.”

“I was here before you,” Scott pointed out.

“That’s fair.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows as he studied his friend.  “You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Scott huffed, pushing himself away from the wall and falling into step with Stiles as the other boy blew past him to open the clinic door.

“Are you really doing this?”

“Are you really surprised?” Stiles asked rhetorically.  He could almost hear Scott’s inner groan from behind him, and suppressed a smile as he crossed the threshold, beelining down the narrow corridor to the back room and trusting his friend to follow.

Deaton was cleaning the examination table, and he looked up as they entered, eyes widening in surprise and hand freezing mid-wipe.  Stiles gave him a tight smile and he frowned in return.  “Boys,” he acknowledged, slowly.

“Hi Doc,” Stiles replied.  “Mind if I pick your brain?”

Deaton hesitated, gaze travelling past Stiles and landing on Scott, who shrugged.

“Stiles has concerns,” the werewolf explained, rather unhelpfully.

Stiles scowled at him.  “Stiles has very legitimate concerns,” he corrected.  Turning back to Deaton, he continued, “People are acting weird and the internet is useless.  Can you help?”

Deaton stared for a moment, then sighed.  “Alright, Stiles.”  He lowered himself into a chair, gesturing Stiles toward another.  “What’s going on?”

Stiles dropped into the chair and took a deep breath, then explained.  He told Deaton about the favours.  About the classroom, the hallway, the drive-through, the carpark.  By the time he was finished, Deaton’s intense stare had melted into confusion and Scott was deliberately studying the floor.

“So, you’re worried because people are being…friendly?” Deaton clarified.

Stiles’ head throbbed, and he couldn’t quite hold back a glare.

“Oh, for the love of –.”  Biting back a curse, Stiles turned his eyes heavenward and took a deep breath.  “ _Yes,”_ he snapped.  “Why does everyone get stuck on that part?  The point is that people aren’t acting normally.”

Deaton’s lips twisted doubtfully, and he turned a quizzical gaze to Scott.  “And what do you think of this?” he asked.

Scott hesitated, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.  “I don’t know,” he hedged.

There was a moment of silence, and Stiles rolled his eyes.  “Just say it, Scott. I promise I won’t be offended.”

Scott considered his words carefully.  “I think you’ve got a point,” he said, finally.  “I’m not blind; I know people have been nicer than usual toward us.  But I don’t know that we need to go digging into it.”

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, then slammed it shut again when he saw the expression on Scott’s face.  The werewolf looked exhausted, faint creases lining his eyes that Stiles had never noticed before.

“Maybe it really is just graduation fever, or maybe the universe is throwing us a bone,” Scott continued, raising one shoulder in a weary shrug.  “Either way, it doesn’t seem dangerous.  Why look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“You’re mixing metaphors,” Stiles muttered.

Scott didn’t laugh. 

Stiles sighed, turning back to the vet.  “Do you have anything for me or not?”

Deaton looked between the boys with a vaguely disapproving expression, before seemingly arriving at a decision.  Wordlessly, he crossed the room and typed a code into a locked safe on the far wall.  The door popped open, and he leaned forward to rummage through the contents.

When he turned back around, there was a tablet cradled carefully in his hands. 

“Here,” he said, pressing the device into Stiles’ palm.  “Until you have something more concrete, I’m not going to start shaking down my contacts, but that should give you something to work on in the meantime.  I’ve been digitizing my collection of reference books – this is what I have so far.”

Stiles’ eyes widened, his hand tightening reverently on the tablet.  “Oh my god,” he breathed, awed.  “This is so cool, you have no idea.  Seriously.  Thank you so much.”

Deaton nodded, as grave as ever, but Stiles could have sworn he spotted a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright, then,” the vet dismissed, masking his smile with a cough and waving Stiles out of the room.  “I actually do have a job to get back to, so if you want to get stuck into that somewhere else…”

Stiles shot him a grin, backing out of the room without complaint.  He had work to do.

* * *

  _Step Three: Collaboration_

Stiles chewed his pen absently, completed absorbed in the tablet in front of him.  Deaton’s books were _fascinating_ , and he had barely put the device down since he received it.  Beyond the chapters on werewolves and kanimas there were notes on wendigos, changelings – even freaking _vampires._

 _Vampires._ For real.

Stiles had grabbed his research notebook to brainstorm with, and he had already filled a dozen pages with dot points of topics that he really needed to look into once his current problem was dealt with.

The only problem was, he hadn’t found anything to clearly explain what was going on, and an edge of doubt was starting to creep into his mind.

_What do you want me to say - that I’m a stalker?  That I’m crazy?  Totally paranoid?  None of this is new information!_

He winced as the memory echoed through his mind, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to force it back out.

“Alright, I can’t stand this anymore.”

The familiar voice interrupted his thoughts and Stiles jumped, eyes flying open as Lydia slid into the seat next to him.  She ignored his reaction in favour of prising the tablet and notebook out of his hands, and began scanning his shorthand with a discerning gaze.

“Lydia, what – ?”

“Give me a minute.”  She didn’t bother to look up as she cut him off, her entire focus on the scrawl in front of her.

Stiles huffed, somehow simultaneously annoyed and awed, but fell silent, allowing her to leaf through his book with a surprisingly gentle touch. 

When she finished, she turned to him with a dubious stare.  “Is this it?”

Stiles frowned, annoyance gaining the upper hand. “I only just started looking,” he defended himself.

“Uh huh.”

 “Do you have a better explanation?”

Lydia pursed her lips and pointed to one particular line of scribble.  “Better than fairies influencing people to be nice to us as a subtle ploy to put us off-guard?  Or a shapeshifter trying to sneak into our inner circle?  Probably.”

“Look, if you’re just here to nitpick…” Stiles grabbed his book back, holding it to his chest protectively and stamping down on a flash of hurt. “I’m just brainstorming, okay?  The critical evaluation bit comes later.”

Lydia’s eyes softened.  “I know.  It’s just...”

Stiles clenched his jaw, frustrated. “I don’t need to hear this from you, too,” he retorted, standing up from the table.  He put his hand out for the tablet, but Lydia shook her head and tightened her grip on it instead. “What?” he snapped.

The redhead stared for a moment, weighing him with her eyes, before sighing. She shifted the tablet to her elbow, cradling it carefully, then stood up and gestured for him to follow.  “Come on.”

Stiles hesitated, then jogged a couple of steps to catch up with her.  “Where are we going?”

She didn’t answer him, instead nodding to his notebook.  “I saw the list,” she commented.  “Girl-with-glasses from calc, right?  Also – side note – you need to start learning people’s names.”

Stiles made a complicated gesture with his free hand.  “I know people’s names.”

“Beyond the lacrosse team.”

“I do!”

“And the Pack.”

“Oh.  Well, you’ve got me there.”

Lydia snorted, then attempted to cover it up with a delicate cough while Stiles bit back a smile, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

“’Girl-with-glasses’ is called Jessica,” Lydia informed him, nodding ahead to where the girl in question was standing alone under a tree, texting on her phone.  “I used to be close with her.”

“Okay…”  Realisation hit him, and Stiles’ heart sank.  He stopped dead, reaching for Lydia’ s sleeve and pulling her to a halt beside him.  “I don’t know if this is a great idea,” he cautioned.

Predictably, Lydia completely ignored him.  She gently removed his hand, jerked her head to indicate he should follow, then closed the distance to the other girl.

“Jess, honey!” Lydia exclaimed, before wrapping the other girl into an enthusiastic hug.  “How are you?”

Jess blinked, surprised, but broke into a genuine grin as she returned Lydia’s hug.  “Great!” she started, but then her eyes slid past Lydia and she noticed Stiles standing nearby, and her smile instantly faltered.  “Um – hi?”   

Stiles gave an uneasy half-wave, and glared at Lydia.

The banshee rolled her eyes.  “Jess, you know Stiles, right?  He’s in AP calc with you.”

“Sure,” the other girl said slowly, clearly confused.  “What can I do for you?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Lydia said.  Her voice was sugary sweet, but Stiles noticed the analytical glint to her eye and felt his irritation fade slightly.

Maybe she was taking this more seriously than he realised.

“Stiles noticed you gave up your seat for Scott the other week.  I was hoping you could tell us why?”

The remainder of Jess’ smile immediately vanished, her eyes tightening as a flicker of fear passed over her face.  “Because I figured he wanted to sit there,” she answered, too quickly.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and spared a quick glance toward Lydia.  The banshee had caught the lie as well, judging by the sudden tension in her shoulders.

“Want to try that again?” Lydia’s voice was sharp with an unspoken threat, and Jessica flinched at the sudden change in tone.  She shrunk backwards, glancing helplessly around her, looking desperately for an escape.

Stiles’ breath caught in his chest.  “Wait,” he blurted out, stumbling forward.

“Stiles –” Lydia hissed, trying to push him behind her, but he shook her off. 

“Look at her,” he muttered quietly, gesturing at the other girl.  “She’s terrified of us.  She’s not going to hurt me.”

Lydia paused, critical eyes turning back to Jessica, and gave a half-nod.  “Just be careful.”

Stiles gave her a reassuring smile, then turned back to the other girl, who was still looking like she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“It’s okay, Jess,” he said, in the same careful voice he used when Malia and Scott had been struggling through their first full moons.  “We just want to know what’s going on.  If there’s someone making you do this, we can help.”

And – well.  Jessica blinked, the fear immediately dissipated from her expression, but he wasn’t sure he liked the change.  Now she was just staring at him in utter confusion. 

“Huh?” she asked.  “Why would someone make me move seats?”

Stiles squinted.  “Why else would you do it?”

Jess stared, glancing from him to Lydia, then back again.  “Because I wanted to do something nice?” she offered.

“Yeah, no, you already tried that one,” Lydia cut in, frowning at her, voice still harsher that Stiles had ever heard it.  “We want the truth.”

Jess bit her lip and glanced at the library, which was cordoned off while repairs were underway, before shivering slightly and hugging her arms. 

When she turned back to them, her lips were once again tightened with fear. “Look, I don’t want to get involved with any of this, okay?” she began, voice dropping to a whisper.  “I just, I don’t know.  I guess I felt like moving seats was the least I could do, all things considered.”  She tilted her head to the library, widening her eyes meaningfully.

Stiles glanced at Lydia, who looked completely lost, and shrugged helplessly.  Yeah, he had no idea what she was talking about either.

“Jess, hon?” Lydia bit out, irritated.  “We’re going to need you to stop speaking in riddles.”

Jessica’s jaw dropped – apparently, she thought that her explanation was clear as day.  She paused a moment, glancing between the two of them, then leaned in and gestured for them to do the same.  “I was _there_ , okay?” she revealed, conspiratorially.  “I was in the library with Blake when that _thing_ crashed through the wall, the night of the game.  It was terrifying.  We thought we were going to die.  I’m sure everyone else in the building thought the same.”

The pieces finally fell into place, and Stiles’ heart stopped.  “Oh, no.”

Jess looked at him, earnestly.  “I don’t know how to explain what I saw – what happened to McCall.  But I do know that he saved my life.”

A sharp intake of breath from Stiles’ left let him know that Lydia had clicked on as well.  Then the banshee grabbed his arm, gesturing for his notebook, and he handed it over, taking back the tablet in its place.

Lydia flipped open to the first page, where he had scribbled down his list, and glanced back up at Jessica. “Who else was in the library?” she demanded.

“Other than me and Blake?” Jess bit her lip, glancing skyward as she tried to remember.  “Um…there was Devon, from the basketball team.  Abe.  Brody.  A group of sophomores – I don’t know their names.”

Lydia nodded, then glanced meaningfully up at Stiles, who locked onto her gaze like a lifeline.

“Devon works at Taco Bell,” she murmured.  “And Brody looks a little like Jackson.”

Stiles took a deep breath, blowing it out through pursed lips as his brain struggled to accommodate the information. 

Then his knees sagged, and his shoulders slumped with relief.  “So, no magic mind control?” he questioned.

“Guess not,” Lydia confirmed, and then burst into laughter.

Stiles made to protest, a little offended, before realising that the tense lines around her eyes had vanished and there was frank relief colouring her voice.  She wasn’t mocking him – she was just glad.

His lips quirked into a wry smile, and Stiles let himself relax, pulling the still-giggling banshee into a one-armed hug. She nestled into his side, gasping slightly for breath, and he squeezed her against him just once before remembering that they weren’t alone.

Because – yeah.  He had completely forgotten about Jess.

Stiles’ gaze darted to the other girl, and what he saw made him freeze, the blood draining from his face.

Jess’ eyes were as large as dinner plates, her mouth gaping open and her already-pale face becoming whiter by the second.  “Magic mind control?” she echoed, horrified.  “Is that a thing that can happen?”

“Uh, you know, –  ”

“Actually, you know what?”  Jess cut across Stiles’ panicked reply, which was handy, because he had no idea how he was going to end that sentence.  She shook her head, a rapid back-and-forth movement slightly too fast for comfort, and raised her hands in the universal ‘stop’ gesture. “I don’t want to know.  Thanks, but…I’m gonna go, now.”  She vaguely motioned to a nearby group of students who were watching them curiously, then took off at the closest thing to a run Stiles had ever seen her do.

Beneath his arm, Lydia let out another high-pitched giggle, then dropped her head onto Stiles’ chest.  “Oh, dear god,” she breathed.  “Poor Jess.  I’ll have to apologise later.”

“Probably,” Stiles agreed.                           

Lydia pulled back, gingerly wiping her eyes with a knuckle, before levelling Stiles with a look.  “Speaking of apologies…”

Ah, crap.

His good mood instantly evaporated, Stiles dropped his gaze to the ground so he could glare at the soil rather than the one friend who had actually helped him with this problem.  “I know,” he muttered.  “I took things too far and got all paranoid again.  You don’t need to tell me.”

“Actually, I was going to say that I owe you one.”

Surprised, Stiles’ head whipped up to find her watching him carefully. 

“You were right,” Lydia continued, nodding toward Jess.  “There was more to this than we thought.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” Stiles argued, taking a moment to wonder why he was arguing against himself before plunging ahead regardless.  “There’s no malice behind this – people really are just being friendly.  I should have left it alone.”

The banshee shook her head, stepping closer and touching him lightly on the elbow.  “No, it’s better that we know. And, Stiles? Don’t apologise for being you.”

Stiles frowned, studying her.  There was no trace of the laughter from seconds ago; instead, Lydia’s gaze was boring into his own, fierce and sincere in equal measure.

“Are you more suspicious than the rest of us? Sure.  Do you sometimes drag me out of bed in the middle of the night for things that end up being nothing? Unfortunately, yes.”

Stiles winced.  “I’m not sure how this is supposed to make me feel better.”

“My _point_ is,” Lydia said, louder, in a voice that brooked no arguments, “I wouldn’t get out of bed if I didn’t think it was worth it.  You’re right more often than you’re wrong. And, besides – someone needs to keep an eye out for this group, and you’re more qualified than the rest of us.  Scott is weirdly sceptical of everything supernatural despite being able to grow claws and fangs, and I don’t have your drive to go trudging through the Preseve at two in the morning looking for clues.  We need you.”

She moistened her lips, eyes soft.  Then she released his elbow, moving her hand to his hairline to smooth an errant lock back into place. 

Stiles followed her with his hand, his long fingers circling her wrist before gliding over her palm and interlacing with her own.  He brought their linked hands down to their sides, lifting his other hand to cup her cheek, his gaze locked with hers.

“Thankyou,” he said, and she smiled.

* * *

_Step Four: Aftermath_

The others were not quite so grateful.

Scott gave him a pointed look when Stiles explained what had happened, then manfully changed the topic and never mentioned it again.

Deaton sighed and demanded his tablet back, eventually promising to make a copy for Stiles if he would stop arguing and let him finish his shift in peace.

Liam blinked in surprise and asked Stiles why he had never come to him for help, then looked confused when the entire Pack stared at him in disbelief.  

But Lydia smiled warmly at him when he caught her gaze, and reached for his hand in the corridor, and occasionally followed him home so they could study together even though neither of them really needed to study, so Stiles couldn’t find it in him to regret his quest for answers.

Sometimes, it turned out, things could work out for the best after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started writing this fic way back when season 5 was airing, but as I was struggling with a bad case of writer's block at the time, it unfortunately ended up gathering dust along with half-a-dozen other stories that I just couldn't manage to complete.
> 
> Four years later, I'm finally getting back into writing. I'm pretty rusty but I'm really loving it, so I thought I'd have a go at finishing some of these older fics. I haven't actually watched Teen Wolf or read TW fics for a long time, but I do love writing Stiles so here we are.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


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